Tipsily
by Nyaire
Summary: Anyone remember Dingeye and Thura from Salamandastron? Well, of course you don't! I'm here to make you remember. Titled with the most appropriate word I could find.


"Oy, Ding, where's me tin can got to?" Thura looked up from where he sat rummaging through a sack, hoping his companion might have the answer.

"Dunno. P'raps wotsisname stole it again," Dingeye offered dispassionately, going back to his feeble attempts at roasting some unidentifiable specimen of seaweed over the fire.

"Wotsisname? Yer mean that liddle brat Trif? Ooh, I hates the bastard. Nabbed me blanket last winter, he did." Thura looked vengeful for a moment, then went back to digging dispiritedly through the sack.

Dingeye looked up again, squinting from the firelight. He sounded faintly bemused. "Mucker, ye've bin searchin' through that thing fer near on 'arf an hour," he remarked. "If'n there were anythin' to see, I'da thought y'would've found it by now."

"Aw, yer right, Ding. Screw it." Thura kicked the sack away and leaned closer to the fire, shivering in the autumn cold. Winter was not a long time in coming.

"That ready yet?" Thura asked hopefully. The other stoat shook his head morosely, saying, "Nah. I swear, stuff like this ain't meant ter be eaten!"

Thura raised an eyebrow. "Prob'ly ain't. Ah well, we make do wid what we 'ave, eh?"

There was a long, dejected pause as both stoats contemplated life as they knew it. Presently, Thura broke the silence, hoping to lift both their moods. "Say, mucker, I heard Wurvy an' Glear got hold o'some drink offa the cap'ns. Wanna go lookin' round fer it?"

Providing that Wurvy and Glear were not in their camp, and Thura was telling the truth, this expedition was likely to prove quite fruitful. Dingeye abandoned his charred seaweed and stood, stretching his scrawny limbs and blinking. The firelight had lulled him nearly to sleep. "Sure. Cain't be 'arf bad if'n it's from s'periors."

The two stoats ambled off into the masses of vermin surrounding them. Tambourines rattled, shouts rang out, cooking utensils flew through the air. Thura saw to it that neither of them got killed by flying debris, while Dingeye scanned the crowd for signs of the searats' camp.

He found it soon enough. Wurvy and Glear were nearby, apparently fighting over what appeared to be a large pink sock. It was well-patched and smeared with dirt, and any creature of breeding would have wondered why the two were warring for it.

Thura stood guard. Dingeye crept toward the rats' sackful of possessions, reaching out one cautious hand to undo the drawstring. Once their target had been obtained, the thieves snuck back to their fire, thoroughly satisfied and anticipating the fruits of a prize well earned.

Dingeye popped the cork, sniffing appreciatively at the contents of the bottle. He took a long swig, then another, until Thura protested, "Oy, spare some hard-earned drink f'yer poor mucker!" Dingeye made a face and grudgingly handed him the bottle.

Half a bottle later, the two stoats were happily drunk. Dingeye tittered as he passed the bottle to Thura, who took it and gulped liberally at what was left of their loot. He missed the bottle and sloshed most of it down the front of his shirt.

"Dammit," the stoat slurred, looking down at his soaked garment. "M'cold now, Ding."

Dingeye peered owlishly at him. "W'ssat yer said?" he implored, reaching for the bottle. Thura yanked it tipsily away from him, spilling more liquor on the both of them in the process.

"Said, m'cold!" Thura repeated. He wrapped his arms around himself, mostly to appear more pathetic to his unconcerned companion.

Had he been sober, Dingeye would not have fallen for the ploy. As it was, though, he offered a sympathetic arm and suggested thickly, "Think I've a blanket somewheres, mucker." Crawling over to his rucksack, he soon procured from it a sizeable, woolen gray mass with holes in numerous places and bits of crud clinging everywhere. Dingeye draped the thing over the two of them, pulling it tight and inhaling deeply.

"Ahh, just think, this was me old muther's ever since she was a young 'un," he remarked nostalgically. Thura rubbed at his eyes and ignored Dingeye's reminiscence; he was reaching the sleepy stage of drunkenness.

"Well, s'enough o' that bottle fer one night, I reckon," he murmured to himself, curling up on the ground and trying drowsily to pull the blanket down with him. Dingeye turned around in protest and began to tug it the other way.

Thura opened one eye. "M'tryin' ter sleep here, awright? Stoppit, Ding!" he mumbled peevishly. Having very little will left to argue at this point, Dingeye gave in, allowing his soggy companion to commandeer the blanket. He settled down nearby.

Unfortunately, the night was cold. Dingeye tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position in the patchy grass. He eyed the sleeping Thura enviously for what seemed like hours, until he could stand it no more. Dingeye crept over to the blanket and wormed his way under it.

Thura stirred and muttered something unintelligible. Unexpectedly, he shifted position in his sleep, draping an arm across Dingeye's chest and rolling a bit too close for comfort. Suddenly Dingeye was hyper-aware of all that was happening at the moment—

Thura's warmth, proximity, and the undeniable rush spreading through his own body. Dingeye squirmed a little closer to his friend. It was a cold night, he reasoned through the alcohol; where was the harm if you slept just a little bit closer to your good mucker? It wasn't like the two of you were…

Dingeye stopped his thoughts before they got any further than that. It was terribly late, and the sun would be peeking over the horizon before they knew it. Time to get some shuteye.

The next morning, Dingeye awoke with a start to realize that Thura's head was buried in the nook under his arm. Hurriedly, he disentangled himself from his bedmate, jumping up only to realize that something else was terribly wrong. _Shit, shit, shit! _he thought, panicking and wringing his hands as he struggled to cover a very obvious protrusion. _Need cold water, now!_

That brisk morning, Dingeye must have set the record for fastest mile-long sprint to the stream in the woods.

Upon returning some while later, shivering and still attempting to wring out his sopping wet clothes, the stoat discovered that, alas, Thura had awoken while he had been gone. _Dammit. I was counting on his being a late sleeper. _

And, of course, the bastard was sitting there hogging the blanket. The morning's events and the subsequent cold water having put Dingeye in a very foul mood, he simply walked up to Thura, extended one icy-cold limb, and yanked it from his back. Thura yelped and turned around, and it was then Dingeye realized he just might have to make another run to the freezing stream.

Why, oh why hadn't he noticed Thura's clothes drying by the fire?


End file.
